


Caught in a Net

by smangtheterrible



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, AU Fantasy, Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Merlock, Mermaid Sex, Merman Sherlock, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Sherlock AU, Veterinarian John, anxiety attack, delicious banter, john and lestrade teaming up to save sherlock's stupid butt, mermaid au, relationship challenges, sherlock makes poor life choices, there is some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smangtheterrible/pseuds/smangtheterrible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson never set out to become a veterinary doctor. It was what you might call the natural order of things. Running a marine rehabilitation centre in the English countryside takes up his whole life, but John could never begin to imagine the way everything would change when something different washes up on his beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I have finished in a very very long time. I don't even know where this thing came from really. I must say its un-beta'd and not brit picked, so I'm really sorry if anything sticks out, I did my best. Please point anything out that needs altering.

The first thing John ever learned about the ocean was that it was unforgiving. The second was that its cruelty when combined with the unconscious detritus of human kind was unimaginable. He was but six when he saved the first one. It was a common gull, caught in a ring of plastic. He was a quiet child, strangely stoic, and he freed that bird with the blank determinism of a child blindly attempting to put the world back in order, without fully comprehending the underlying cause that it was his kind that had caused it, but has he grew and learned, he grew angrier the more he understood the scope of the tragedy, and this anger spurred him to action.

Living next to the sea meant he saw a lot of what it spit out, a tiny splinter of a fraction of what he knew did not make it to his hands. Suffering animals, caught in the after affects of mankind's wastefulness.

By sixteen, John had a volunteer rescue project going. By phone, people on the list would be notified when there was an animal that needed help, and they would come and collect it. But the nearest rescue centre was several hours away, and soon his family home had become a hub for individuals bringing wounded or sick animals, by word of mouth. He was not yet eighteen when he enrolled in veterinary school. By 20, his family's aquaculture farm had been converted into a grass roots marine rehabilitation centre.

 

John Watson never set out to become a veterinarian. It was just what you might call the natural order of things.

 

John was 35 and at his summer house when his world turned upside down.

For the first time in probably twelve months, he felt a little bored, but it was the lazy boredom that comes with summer days filled with nothing to do. For once, he didn't have to get up at 5 am to supervise a feeding, or be dragged away from lunch to be told that an infection wasn't healing as they had hoped and he needed to approve a vet's recommendation. His head vet Molly had to practically kick his butt out the door to tell him to go. John relished his time at the tiny cabin on the edge of the sea. He lived and breathed his work at the centre and it was meditative, being alone for three and a half weeks in the midst of his hectic life. He wasn't alone all the time, of course. As the shack was a good 3 hours away from Aquam Rehab, this meant that the Sheriff’s office was only a mere twenty minutes away, and Sheriff Deputy Lestrade took this opportunity to call upon John to go out on his sloop every summer. The centre had good dealings with the local law enforcement, as citizens very often called Lestrade about animals they had found, who in turn referred them to John. Lestrade fairly often showed up at Aquam with a fox in a box that someone had dumped on him or some such unfortunate animal. Although Aquam was catered to marine life, John never discriminated, and it was always a valid excuse to visit John's live in dolphins and have a cup of tea and a chat.

It was one of the dolphins that was on his mind that day that it all started. A harbour porpoise had come to them two days ago, and John had nearly cancelled his trip because of it, but the team had insisted they could take care of it, and John knew this to be true. Little did John know he would soon have a much bigger problem on his hands.

 

By mid morning on the second day, his plans to do absolutely nothing were already crumbling before his eyes, but all thoughts of taking the dinghy out and doing a bit of fishing were replaced by John's ingrained urge to help. It was an overcast day, and John was halfway through loading his tack box in to the little boat, when he stopped and shielded his eyes, looking out towards the bay. The water was choppy today, peaking a lot, and it was difficult to tell if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, he spotted it, only fifteen metres or so out in the bay. There was a flash of fins, and John squinted. The thing disappeared again, then re emerged, and as John squinted, he could definitely see the rough surface of netting.

He wasted no time. John ran to the supply shed, grabbed a mask and fins, and leaped into the dinghy, yanking the engine to start in one go. He motored out to the spot where he thought he had seen it, and looked around frantically. _There!_ Just a metre to the left. John pulled on mask and fins, and then froze, looking back towards the shore.

 _Fuck!_ In his rush, he hadn't managed to put the bait box into the boat, and in the box was his knife. He stared at it through his mask, sitting innocuously on the pier. He had no way of cutting the bonds. He looked around him desperately, thinking quickly, berating himself for being such an idiot. All he had was his rod and a spare bit of rope line. John grabbed the line, tied it to the gunwale and dove overboard.

 

Orienting himself, he swam towards the animal. He still had no idea what he was dealing with. He had barely a glimpse of it. In the gloom of the water, he couldn't make it out until he was quite close. John hung suspended, rope in hand, squinting. The tail looked more fish like than porpoise, and for a moment John was confused as he tried to identify the species. Then the creature turned over, and John's eyes widened. The tail was connected to the torso of a man, struggling wildly. His brain wanted to tell him that there was a man _and_ a large fish trapped in there, but John knew what he saw, and as he watched transfixed, the man/fish locked eyes with him. He looked panicked, a very human emotion that John recognised, and this spurred John forward to act.

His shock and subsequent hesitation had cost him his air, but John swam forward anyway, and tied his line through the netting, lungs burning. Surfacing, John clutched onto the side of the dingy. He felt a bit faint, and not just from lacking oxygen. Numb, more like. _This cannot be._ The one thing that came to his rational mind was whether the creature could respire underwater, or breathe air like a mammal. If the latter was the case, then John didn't have a lot of time. He dove again quickly, ensured that the line was tied tightly, then kicked hard towards the surface. John quickly gave up trying to pull his package up himself, for it was like dragging a much too heavy weight behind him. Surfacing again, he pulled himself into the boat. The creature had still been fighting wildly, tail thrashing futilely. John gunned the engine, and motored as fast as he dared. The rest of the line ran out, and John felt a tug, as his cargo began to be pulled behind him. When he reached the pier, he jumped out and yanked open the box, found his knife, and jumped back into the water. The momentum of the dingy had pulled the netted thing mostly to shore, and the tide was doing most of the rest of the work for John. Swimming over, he pulled the creature the rest of the way into the shallows. He pulled off his fins so he could walk, and lobbed them onto the shore, using the next tidal wave to beach the creature. 

John kneeled and began trying to cut through the net, but the struggling made it very difficult, and John accidentally nicked the torso as he worked. A line of red blood flowed, and through the haze of the man's panic, this seemed to refocus his efforts in struggling to escape to attacking John, and the more John freed him, the more leverage he gained, a fact John was well aware of. John tried to pin him down with one leg across the creature's torso, but it was like trying to keep hold of the world's largest, most slippery fish. John also realised that underneath the netting a second clear fishing line was wrapped around him, at some points wound so tightly that it was cutting into his flesh. Meanwhile, the creature was clawing at him with long pale webbed hands, hissing at him with a noise John had never heard before. He had never seen anything struggle so ferociously.

“Calm down, you fucker,” John muttered without thinking as he worked. He tried to cut at the bonds again, then gave it up as the man managed to get an arm through and he was raked along his chest by long nails. John yelled, and hastily moved back and watched, momentarily stunned, as the creature continued to violently struggle, before he suddenly remembered through his shock the anaesthetics in the back of his truck. Not wanting to leave, John turn and ran up the hill and across the yard, sprinting around the house to the front. He grabbed the tranquilliser gun he kept in the back of his truck and ran back down the hill. The creature was still thrashing in the shallows, being buffeted by the incoming tide. Not hesitating, John loaded the correct dose for a small dolphin and fired from the edge of the beach, several metres away. He heard the dart make contact with a light _thuck_ into the creature's torso _,_ and he approached and stood there heaving for a minute, watching as the anaesthetic quickly took hold. The man's eyes seemed to bore into him with hate and loathing unlike any animal John had ever captured as the drugs overcame him, and at last he became limp and still, the only sound the waves gently washing over him. John dropped the gun into the sand and wiped a hand over his mouth. His brain was running circles. There were times in his work when he felt afraid, or felt he wasn't in control of the situation as he dealt with often large and powerful animals, but that was nothing to how he felt now. John knelt and using the net, dragged the creature up on to the beach the rest of the way. John took the opportunity to look him over, barely believing his eyes. 

He was enormous, the green-silver tail extending perhaps twice the length of his torso, and quite slim; his lean body streamlined and suggesting great power. He was quite pale, with an unusually long face, high cheekbones, and a shock of dark hair. His unconscious face was quite beautiful, angelic even, the contrast between how monster- like he looked mere minutes ago John found most shocking. His whole body was beautiful, if John was being entirely honest with himself. He checked his breathing; he seemed to be respiring normally despite being out of the water. The man had two gill slits below his ribs on his torso he hadn't previously noticed which were closed now, and two thin pelvic fins that extended out from where his narrow hips transitioned into tail. These too lay flat against his body out of water. John picked up his knife and methodically began to cut the net away, feeling quite numb. Once this task was done, he first carefully removed the dart where it had embedded into his torso, and then began to work on the clear fishing line more slowly, especially taking care where it had worked its way into the flesh. When at last he was free, John sat back on his haunches and stared dumbly. _Fuck!_ He was over 200 km away from Aquam, and he didn't have any supplies on him. Not that he could very well bring this one in to the centre. With shaking hands, his mind working in overdrive, he dug his mobile out of his pocket and dialled Molly, who thankfully picked up.

“ _If this is to check on Snouty I distinctly remember saying not to call unless something washed up over there. You're supposed to be on vacation, John.”_

“Yes, I know, Molls, the thing is, something has, uh, washed up.”

“ _What? Really? You want me to get the team out there?”_

“No, no, its fine, I've just got a, uh, sea lion caught in a crab snare,”John said, thinking rapidly.

“I mean its not fine, I haven't caught him yet, he keeps disappearing on me, but I was wondering if you could run some antibiotics out here in case he turns up. I should have a full kit out here anyway. I would come pick it up myself but I'm watching the water like a hawk.”

“ _Yeah, of course, any excuse for a road trip. But you're sure you don't want the team out there?”_

“No no, I only saw him once yesterday. He's a young one, it should be fine.”

“ _Okayyy, I hope this doesn't ruin your vacation.”_

“I'd be happy to let it.”

Molly snorted over the line. _“Oh, one more thing, you don't need a gun?”_ she said, referring to the tranquilliser dart gun John had already utilised.

“No, I had- have one in the truck.”

“ _Alright, I'll try to make it out there tomorrow.”_

John's heart sank, but he knew he couldn't say anything about coming sooner, or it would sound strange. He thanked her and hung up.

_Now what?_ He had a strange mental image of getting him into the bathtub in the shack, but anyone who had ever visualised a mermaid in a bathtub obviously had vastly misjudged proportions. He would have been folded in two if he got him in there, he was so long. Then John realised he might as well have a beached dolphin on his hands. There was no way he could get this creature anywhere by himself, and he realised the call to Molly had been rather pointless. He was stuck here with him on the beach. 

John found himself staring unashamedly at the creature, feeling as though he had just been the one to discover alien life. He was struck by the strange desire to touch him, to explore this creature with his hands, but something held him back at first. In a mammal his size, the drugs would last for a couple hours. John spent the first hour sitting there, staring, barely moving. Then he mentally shook himself and felt his veterinary instincts kick in, and he stood, feeling the blood rush back into his legs. He felt again a reluctance to run up to the house even for a minute, as if the creature might disappear in the time he was gone, but John forced himself to go and retrieve a notebook, gloves, camera, tape measure and a a small pot of herbal salve he kept in his bathroom. He might not have any traditional antibiotics on hand, but this would hopefully help with the open gashes and swelling in the meantime. John's mother had been big on natural healing, and had imparted some of this wisdom onto her son, and for that John was very grateful. He also grabbed an empty bait bucket on his way out the door from the shack, thinking it might be useful.

John scientifically recorded his measurements and external features. The man's full lips were parted slightly, and John gently pulled down his lower lip, and then inspected his teeth. They were quite similar to that of a human's, except the canines were very long and sharp. John then opened the jar of salve, dipping his fingers into the pot. He hesitated, then began applying it gently to the open gashes. The man's lower half felt smooth, not at all slimy, the scales so tiny they could hardly be felt. John took this as an opportunity to examine him even more closely, rolling him gently over to continue applying the salve to his back. John rolled him back over, and was almost finished, when he awoke.

John had no warning. He probably wouldn't have even noticed if he hadn't been looking at the creature's face at that moment. The man's eyes flicked open, pupils contracted, and for a moment it was as if nothing had changed. Then he came to life, without a sound this time. John hastily stepped back, but he needn't have worried.

Flexing his abductor muscles, the man moved like a snake along the sand, not very smoothly mind, but he managed to jackknife himself into the surf in an explosion of movement, spraying John with wet sand. With another thrust of his caudal fins he was out further. “Wait-!” John shouted pointlessly, but in a blink of an eye and without looking back he was gone, gliding through the sea out to open ocean. If it weren't for the s- shaped marks on the beach and the five fingered gouges in the sand where he had writhed back into the sea, John would have thought he had imagined the whole thing, and in a few moments, these markers were gone also, as the tide washed them away. John looked down at his camera on the beach, and realised with a start he hadn't taken a single photograph.

Suffice to say, he didn't sleep very well that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly turned up the day after The Event around four pm, and told him he looked like shit. John didn't remember the excuse he gave her, just that he tried to pull himself together in her presence otherwise she might show up again unexpectedly to check up on him, which was a very Molly thing to do, and the last thing he wanted right now when there was the chance he might see the creature again. In the mean time he was obsessing about it. Who wouldn't? He felt a bit like his whole life was measured up to this moment, the before and the after, what was logical, and what had crashed into his world like a flying fish landing on his deck. Was he going mad? Had this actually happened? He kept running his hands over the raised red welts across his chest, the only physical reminder of the whole event he had. He had taken to waking up early each morning to go and sit on the dock before the sun came up. He was waiting. He knew this. Three days passed, until what he was fearing he would never witness again came to fruition.

 

John set his book down, and was just about to get up from the dock and go inside and start making dinner, when he spotted it.

There was a familiar head floating out amongst the surf, staring at him. John scrambled to his feet in shock. The head eyed him warily, before disappearing. A moment later, he reappeared just at the end of the pier. What happened next made John question his sanity yet again.

“I believe,” the man said, “I owe you an apology.”

John gaped.

“You...speak English,” John said stupidly. The man said nothing to this, which made John feel even more stupid. Half of the man's mouth curled upwards though, in an approximation of a leer. John was struck again just how dangerous this creature looked, almost predatory. John swallowed, and for the first time a warning of ulterior motives shifted in his peripheral mind.

“How...are you alright?” he heard himself say. The creature continued to look at him with that same expression, but he tipped his head to the side in a calculating way. Then with a slight movement he shifted so his long body was floating horizontally under the surface. John could just see the outline of his fins. He moved with such ease it took John's breath away. “You applied something to me. It has done well.”

John could just make out that the slices to his skin had appeared to begin to heal over.

“I have more, if you would like it. I have better medicine as well, they will keep you from getting sick.”

John had no idea if his kind knew about infection, but the creature's expression changed, and he made a strange approximation of what John realised was a laugh.

“Ooh, no thank you, John. I'll take my chances.”

John felt his mouth open again of its own accord, and this seemed to amuse the creature even further. Quickly he ran through how the man could have possibly learned his name, and flashed back to Molly dropping off supplies.

“ _John!”_ she had said happily as she slammed the door of her car shut upon arrival three days ago. 

_That meant that he could hear all the way...?_

“You've been watching me?”

“But of course. Trust must be earned. I was halfway to Cornwall when I was _overcome_ with curiosity, and decided to appease myself.” He sounded like he was mocking him, but all John latched on to was one thing.

“You trust me, then?”

“No.”

“Right. Well, what is your name then?”

“In my tongue, you couldn't possibly pronounce it, but you may call me Sherlock. Please don't be offended by the trust thing, but if there is one thing you should know about me, as I can tell you are burning to ask, is that my kind have an inherent distrust for yours. Nothing personal, I assure you, but you must admit your kind have a recurring tendency to...how do you say, destroy everything.”

“I hope you don't hold that against me,” John said jokingly.

That sly leer was back, and Sherlock ducked under the water while maintaining eye contact, to re-emerge a few feet to the left. Something occurred to John. “I'm sorry I, ah, shot you.”

For the first time, that expression fell from its face, to be replaced by one of shocking vulnerability. “You have nothing to apologise for. I was...in a panic. I couldn't think straight. You must understand, everything we are taught from the time we are birthed is to avoid your kind at all costs, on pain of death, and I was overcome by my less rational instincts.”

“I don't blame you.” John said. He wanted very badly to tell Sherlock that his life's work was spent saving marine species, but this didn't absolve him of the damage he knew he contributed to. Just because he recycled and rehabilitated Plovers didn't absolve him of his footprint on the planet. He wasn't an idiot, and he had quickly realised he had only redeemed himself a fraction in this strange creature's eyes. It was small comfort perhaps that the simmering anger this creature felt was one he recognised in himself in regard to the state of the world, yet he felt then and there like a fucking hypocrite. Sherlock's ecological impact was zero compared to him, and he had every right to be angry and mistrustful. John wished he knew how to convey all this to him.

“You have me at a disadvantage. I didn't even know you existed. At all.”

“The only reason my kind are still around is due to that fact.”

“How do you know I won't tell everyone about you?”

“Who would believe you?” he replied easily.

_Right._

John opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of where to go from here.

“You have questions.” It was a statement.

“Yes. Uh, do you mind if we converse awhile?”

“Quid pro Quo.”

“That's fine. Me first.”

“Okay.”

“How did you learn phrases like that? How do you know English so well?”

Sherlock flipped and floated lazily on his back, his long dark hair fanning out around his head. John stared. “We can hear a school of tuna half a fathom away. Our hearing on land is almost equally developed. This combined with curiosity plus intelligence...” Sherlock trailed off.

“Does all your kind speak English so well?”

“No. Much to the dismay of my mother, we learned it uncommonly well.”

This gave rise to at least four more questions, and John opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.

“My turn. That was two questions.” He pulled himself upright. “What does To kick the bucket mean?”

“What?”

“What does 'kicking the bucket' mean?”

John laughed in surprise. “It means to die.”

“Oh. What about a Devil's Advocate? What is that?”

“Umm, it means when you are arguing with someone, you take a side just for the sake of the argument, not because you necessarily believe in it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “In our tongue we do not have these sorts of phrases.”

“They're called idioms.”

“For idiotic?”

“No, it just means they mean something besides what they are saying. Like a metaphor.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock seemed to digest this for a moment.

John cut in. “You said you had a mother. Do you have a family? What are your people like? How many are there? Do you have a home?”

Sherlock was grinning at him now, and it looked more mocking than friendly.

“We are nomadic, and solitary. I have a home range, but I don't live in a set place. The ocean is my home,” he said, gesturing. “My turn. I have never seen you here before, I do not think.”

“I'm just on summer holidays from work. I don't usually live here.”

“You help animals. You heal them.” Statement, not a question.

“Yes..how did you know? I rehabilitate marine wildlife down the coast.”

“That thing you shot me with. Quite sophisticated, and obviously used to incapacitate, not to kill. What use would anyone have in capturing a large animal? There are few jobs that qualify. I know the centre down the coast. I have seen the dolphins in nets.”

“They were rescued from a very cruel environment.” John said quickly. He didn't think going into the aquarium thing was worth it. “They would die if they returned to the sea. They live in large open ocean pens, so they can experience a natural environment as much as possible.”

“And you wanted to add me to your collection?”

John stared at him. “I only take in critically wounded animals.”

“Surely my capture would generate a lot of money for you.”

“I would never do that.”

“You don't like money? It is everything to your kind, is it not?”

“Yes, but to our knowledge, you do not exist. If people got wind of you, it would be- completely nuts. Everyone would want to run tests on you. You'd probably be locked up in a government facility in a little tank. You would become an attraction.”

“So?”

John huffed in frustration. “My life's work is to reduce the suffering of- ones like yourself. From my kind. I spend my time removing plastic from shore bird's stomachs, and fixing things that get run over by cars. I want to restore the natural order of things as much as I can, because we live in a really fucked up world where 99% of my kind don't give a shit about anything but themselves, when it comes down to it. The last thing I'd ever want was to put you in a cage. I wouldn't do that for all the money in the world.”

Sherlock was watching him, eyes glinting. John caught his breath. “That was a test, wasn't it?” John said, coming up short.

A slow smile grew on Sherlock's face in response. John couldn't shake the way he was staring at him.

“Did I pass?”

Sherlock moved slowly away, tail flexing under the water.

“Good day, John.”

He flipped and dived, disappearing from view. John felt numb once again, wondering if he would ever see this being again, struggling to hold his image in his mind.

 

He needn't have worried.

After dinner the next day, John went down and sat on the dock, watching the sun go down, thinking hard.

In the gathering gloom, he appeared like a ghost, looming out of the water, less than a yard away.

“Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!” John yelled.

Sherlock ignored him. “I wanted to ask you about the lights in the buildings.”

“Oh?”

“How do they work?”

“Uhh. It has to do with electrons.”

“What?”

“Tiny particles in the air you cannot see. They use a thing that makes the electrons flow steadily to make a current- not an ocean current, an electrical current- that makes electrical energy. And then they use circuits to power a light bulb which makes light. Sort of.”

Sherlock was looking at him sceptically.

“How much does your kind know about the world? Science for instance, or maths?” John quickly asked.

Sherlock shifted to float on his back again, webbed hands flat along the surface of the water.

“Do you always change the subject when you do not know the answer to something?”

“I know how electricity works.”

“What's that?”

“You answer my question first.”

Sherlock huffed. “You are wondering how intelligent we are?”

“Well, if you put it that way... for instance, do you know about the solar system? That the earth goes round the sun?”

“Does it?” he said in a bored voice.

“Doesn't that interest you?”

“Not particularly. I don't see what difference it makes. Either we go round the sun, or it goes round us. Life still goes on.”

“But don't you think that's of importance, knowing for sure?”

“Do you know for sure?”

“Of course! We've been to the moon for chrissakes.”

At this, Sherlock turned over to look at him. “What- that moon? In the sky? What do you mean you've been there?”

“ _I_ haven't been there, others have.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then let out a sudden sharp sound that John recognised as a laugh.

“You mean someone has stood on the moon up there?”

“Yes!”

“That's impossible.”

“So now you think its interesting, even though it doesn't concern you.”

“How could someone go up there?”

“They built a ship that goes into space. It happened a long time ago.”

Sherlock was silent on this.

“I'd show you a video, but I don't have internet out here.”

He seemed to be still ruminating on this. “What about the other ones? That go across the sky?”

“The planes? People travel in them.”

“So I gathered. How do they fly?”

“Uuh, there's an air current that runs over the wings, it gives them lift.”

“But they don't flap like birds.”

“No, they have engines that burn fuel that makes them go instead.”

“How?”

“Sherlock, how deep can you dive?” John said quickly

Sherlock glared at him, but took it. “About as deep as a sea lion. Why?”

“So you have never been into the deep ocean trenches.”

“No, but I know they are very very deep. I can sense the water there, I feel their currents coming up. Why?”

“I wanted to know if there was anything weird down there. It's the last part of earth we have yet to explore.”

“Weird like me?”

John stuttered, and Sherlock smirked at him, then stilled, seeming to sense something. “I need to go,” he said suddenly.

“Oh.”

“There's something I must take care of.” He flipped and dived, and John saw a flash of fin, and then he was gone in an instant. John felt suddenly bereft.

 

_He moved, slicing through the water column with great speed, out to sea, then dove, pushing himself down, down. Water lost light quickly, and soon Sherlock was in almost total darkness. He could see just fine however._

_A spectre moved into his space. He could sense him, his shape, as well as he could sense anything. The spectre spoke to him in his own tongue, his words sliding over his skin like an oil slick._

“ _Don't you think you are getting in a little too deep, little brother?”_

_He said nothing in return, but a strange sound emanated from his throat. It had the air of a warning._

“ _You have always had a curiosity for the world above, but you know what they say. Curiosity killed the catfish.”_

“ _None of your business,” Sherlock hissed._

“ _The net gaffe was too close. You could have gotten killed. I know you to be foolhardy, really, but risking your life to purge your curiosity?”_

“ _I take full responsibility for my actions. I'll be the first to admit it got out of hand, however I fail to see how any of it concerns YOU.”_

“ _I do worry about you...and I wanted you to understand, that if you get too far involved, there will be nothing I could do. My arm only extends so far. I fear I cannot do anything any more to protect you. Your life is in your hands.”_

“ _This is my territory. MINE. The next time you overstep your bounds, I'll be forced to act.”_

_He could feel him looking him over, and it made Sherlock want to do something he knew to be very stupid. “I hope you know, I will always have your best interests at heart.”_

“ _It would be in your best interests to piss off, Mycroft.”_

_Sherlock turned around and sped off, disappearing into the gloom._


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, John did eventually get the dingy out successfully, deciding to have a go again at fishing. He had been too preoccupied with his thoughts as of late, but now he motored the boat out to the bay early in the morning when the air was still crisp.

John liked taking a relaxed approach to recreational fishing. It was quite calm and overcast that day, and he was currently lying on his back on the seat, his book held above him, his rod fastened to the gunwale. The only sound that could be heard was that of the water lapping gently, until a single sound of metal shifting somewhere above his head was heard for a second. John thought nothing of it, until he heard it again a few minutes later. John tilted his head back, then scrambled upright onto his knees. There was a pale hand in his bait bucket, attached to a long arm. By the time John got upright, there was a flip of fins as their owner dived, disappearing, then nothing.

John carefully laid back down again. He thought to offer Sherlock some, before he realised with a jolt that Sherlock was testing him again; that this was John's bait, and that he was perfectly capable of catching his own fish. Minutes passed, then there was an explosive splash, a rattling of metal as his bucket was raided again. “Oi!” John yelled, snatching pointlessly at thin air. Sherlock was very quick, and very quickly gone again. A moment later, his head surfaced, just out of reach. His jaw was working as he chewed shrimp, a wolfish expression on his face, and his eyes were locked on John's challengingly.

“Do you mind?” John said. Sherlock's eyebrows came together, and he ducked down, disappearing again. A beat passed, and John was blessed by a sudden torrent of water making its way into the boat. John gasped, standing hurriedly, but before he could say anything, he looked down and realised there was a large trout two hand spans long flopping in the bottom of his boat. It was only there all of five seconds though, as before John could react, a long arm darted back in, caught the wriggling fish easily, and lobbed it back into the ocean in a high arc. John watched it hit the water with a splash a metre away.

“Sherlock, do you want something” he said, eyes still fixed where the fish had disappeared. “Or did you come over here just to be a massive prick?”

“What's a prick?”

“Never mind, what do you want?”

“I was wondering how cars moved by themselves.”

“What do I get in return?”

“The pleasure of my company.”

John lay back down on the seat and picked up his slightly damp book in response.

“I'll bring the fish back.”

“I can catch my own, thanks.”

“But then you wouldn't have to.”

“I enjoy fishing, Sherlock.”

“Well I don't have any interesting anecdotes to trade. I saw a sea lion dismantle and consume an octopus this morning, that's about as thrilling as my day gets.”

John sat up again, face quirking into a tiny smile.

“You know if you wanted to come and talk, all you had to do was say so.”

There was a pause, and John saw his eyes dart down a second before he reacted, and this time John was too quick for him. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist in mid air before it reached the bucket.

“Ah ah ah!”

Sherlock wrenched his wrist out of his grasp and dived, coming up on the opposite side of the dingy.

“Tell me about your life on land. What is it like in the cities? What does it look like inside one?”

John closed his book, thinking. “Well, all cities are different. And the same.” He paused. “I remember the first time I went to London. I was only a small child at the time. I was born out here, you see, in the country, so it was a shock. I remember thinking- wondering how anyone could possibly live like that, it seemed claustrophobic to me at the time.”

“What does that mean?”

“Shut in. Like everything is too close together. Like being trapped in a box. Of course, I went to school there later on, and enjoyed living there very much for a time, but I was glad to leave when I was finished. I love living out here, you see.”

“But what's it like?”

John thought for a moment, wondering how to describe something to someone who knew only vast stretches of empty ocean. “I would describe it as being overwhelming, like all of your senses are being activated too much. It is very loud, and dirty, and busy, and there are many cars and people, more than you can imagine, and there is very little that is green. Nature has been almost, mmm, shut out you could say. But it is vastly exciting. There is so much to do there, music and bars and theatre, and the best food.”

“I wish I could see one. A city, I mean.”

“I think you'd hate it.”

Sherlock looked at him. “Why?”

“Well, maybe not. Knowing your environmental ethics, you probably would be repulsed. Maybe if you were...” John stopped himself.

“Maybe if I was what? Human?”

“Well, yes,” John said sheepishly.

“Maybe I am, somewhere.”

“How do you mean?”

“Sometimes I think about, how would you say, a different universe, or for instance, how we are what we are. Like how is it that I am not a fish, or a shark, but am in this form.”

John smiled at him. “You wax philosophy. I should have known.”

“Whereas you fill your head with such eloquence.” Sherlock said dryly, nodding at John's crime thriller novel.

“You can read?” John said surprisingly.

“No, but it doesn't take an idiot to know that thing doesn't contain the secrets of the universe.”

John looked down at the cover's image, emblazoned with a graphic image of the protagonist firing a gun over his shoulder. “Do you want to learn to read?”

“Yes, I've been dying to decipher all those books sitting on the sea floor,” Sherlock said bitingly.

 _Point taken._ John put the book aside and changed the subject.

“Sherlock, what do you do for fun? I mean, to amuse yourself?”

Sherlock flipped onto his back. “I observe.”

“Observe what?”

A corner of Sherlock's lips went up. “The ocean may be finite, but it is very large John, and infinitely fascinating. It holds many secrets, much like I imagine your cities do.” Sherlock looked away, and his voice grew softer. “I observe the whales going south in the winter, and the behaviour of the salmon when they return to the sea.” He looked back at John, seeming to catch himself. “I observe Life, John.”

“But today, you are bored.”

Sherlock flicked his tail, moving him forward with ease, closer to the boat. “Yes, today I want to know about life on the land. What do the people in the cities eat if they are so many, and so close together? I wondered if they are like schools of fish, but you said there is little nature there. How is there enough food?”

John licked his lips. “Well, to understand that, I'd have to tell you the history of the development of modern agriculture, which is a good place to begin I suppose, as pretty much everything about life on land comes down to that.”

 

John spoke for so long his throat became dry, but he didn't notice until he stopped later when his stomach rumbled around noon. Having such a rapt audience as Sherlock he found to be quite enjoyable. It was enjoyable to tell someone about the way his world worked, much like educating a foreigner about your customs and traditions, but this was entirely different. The more he spoke the more he realised there was to tell. Just how did you go about explaining everything about everything to someone who only knew the peripherals, who saw his world like one looking through a frosted window? He had managed to reel in fish three times throughout the morning while he spoke, much to Sherlock's amusement.

“I'm sorry, I think I'm going to head in and make some lunch. I'll come down to the dock if you like afterwards, and we can continue?” Sherlock agreed, and forty five minutes later, John took his meal down to the dock, and they continued their conversation. John talked and talked and talked. When a chill came into the air, he shook himself, and checked the time. It was past 5 pm, and he was getting hungry again.

“I still don't understand how killing one man could start an entire global conflict. That seems a bit extreme.” Sherlock was saying.

Joan groaned, and lay back on the dock, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Sherlock poked his arm. “John. John!”

“It was a lot more complex than that, it led to the country getting pissed off at the nation of the assassins, and declaring war, and there were a lot of other stuff involved too. I'm not a history teacher, it was all very complicated. I could read to you about World War One for days, and then I'd have to do it all over again for World War Two.”

“Two? There was another one? What caused that one? How many were there?”

John let out another groan, arm still covering his eyes.

“Johnnnn!”

“I'm tired.”

There was silence. John turned his head. Sherlock was looking at him from his place in the water next to the dock. “I'll come back tomorrow?”

John nodded, finding himself smiling. “Okay.”

Sherlock smiled back genuinely this time, the first time he had done so to John's recollection. Then he was gone.

It became a pattern, and before he knew it, John's days at the shack were filled with conversing with Sherlock. It wasn't always just John speaking, sometimes they spoke about their world views, about the state of things. Sherlock talked about the differences he had noted in species behaviour that worried him recently, about the rubbish in the ocean, the amount of pollution. They talked their own brand of philosophy. The strange thing was they didn't always speak. Sometimes John was content to lie on the dock when the weather was good, content to know Sherlock was drifting in the swell nearby. The one thing John couldn't get out of Sherlock was any information about his family. Despite learning that the young in his species travelled with their mothers until they became of age, then went off on their own, John couldn't wring any specifics about inter-familial relations from him. They had basic laws among their kind, and that they passed on news by word of mouth, but beyond this, Sherlock was mum.

He didn't come every day, but he came more often than not.

 

 

One day at the start of his last week at the house, John heard a familiar whistle. He was preparing dinner, as Lestrade was coming over. John finished sticking the roast into the oven, grabbed his beer, and walked down to the pier.

Sherlock was waiting for him, eyes glinting. “Hello,” John said. He made to sit down, but Sherlock stopped him.

“No, don't sit,” he said quickly. “John, do you have a radio?”

“Um, yes.”

“Could you bring it down here and make it play? I would so like to listen.” He looked suddenly excited.

“Yeah, sure, give me a sec.” John went up in to the house to grab it and a long orange extension cable he kept in the shed out back. He plugged it into the exterior wall and ran it down to the dock. Sherlock had his arms folded on the end of the pier as it was high tide, and looked much like a child on Christmas morning. John set the box down on the dock and turned it on, fiddling with the knob for a second. Then the droning professional voice came through, half way through the five o clock news. Sherlock looked transfixed. They listened for a few moments. John started to say something but Sherlock cut him off with a sharp sssssssss noise from between his teeth. John chuckled, and started to get to his feet.

“Shall I go, and leave you two?” Sherlock grabbed his arm in less than a heartbeat, and yanked him back down. It startled John, it was the first time Sherlock had initiated real physical contact, other than poking him. They listened for another minute. It was quite boring- conflict in the middle east, a woman in Sussex had found a dead cat in a sealed bottle of pickles and was suing the pickle company.

“How does it work, John? Where do the voices come from?”

John sighed. Oh boy. “They are transmitted by waves of sound.”

“Waves?”

“Not like ocean waves. Invisible signals that move through the air. Like the electrons. They're picked up by a receiver. I'm not an expert.”

“There are men not far from here who fish all the time. They always have the radio on, especially at the cleaning station. I like to listen to it from far away, but I have never gotten as close as this to one before. Your kind create such great and terrible things.” John was about to answer when he heard a car pull into the drive and shut off its engine. Sherlock rocketed backwards without another word, turned and dived. He re emerged a few metres out in the bay, craning his neck to see up the hill. John thought he would disappear for good, and was surprised when Sherlock reappeared a moment later back at the pier, looking irritated.

“What's he doing here?” Sherlock glared.

John looked around at Lestrade's car, then back to Sherlock in shock. “You mean Lestrade? You know him?”

“Of course I know him. He comes like a dog when I call him and tell him there's a beached whale somewhere.”

John pictured it- Lestrade's office was practically on the beach, at the public camping facility down the road. Sherlock signalling at him, telling him there was an animal somewhere in distress, Lestrade calling John, John getting the team to get out there and deal with it.. How many of the call ins had come down to Sherlock notifying them first?

John gaped at him. “You mean you two _work_ together?”

“Don't look so shocked, John! Did you think you were the first to know me? Lestrade, for all his shortcomings is one of the few I trust. We have a pact. I saved his neck once upon a time, and now he owes me for all eternity.”

“He is quite compassionate.”

Sherlock snorted.

“You'll have to say hello, then.”

“I don't have to do anything.”

“Come on Sherlock! Say hello or I'll take the radio away,” he said half jokingly, without thinking.

Sherlock hissed at him, his face twisting as he bared his teeth, and he turned tail and dived, this time disappearing for good in an instant. John instantly felt sick to his stomach, standing there in shock. He was startlingly reminded that Sherlock was not human, and he mentally slapped himself.

_Why the hell did he say that?_

John turned the radio back on, and went up to greet Lestrade who had by now spotted him down on the peer and was coming down the hill.

“Oi! How you been, John?”

John put on a brave face. “Yeah, really well, really well.”

Lestrade clapped him on the back. “There's not a girl hiding under your bed or anything? I still can't believe you like coming out here all by yourself.”

“Greg, I am surrounded by twenty people and half a dozen screaming animals every single day. Some peace and quiet is exactly what I need.”

“Fair enough. I know you work yourself into the ground, John. Molly worries about you.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Ran into her last week at the marina. She mentioned you.”

“She holding down the fort okay?”

“Everything's fine, don't worry...” He went on to bring John up to speed about life in general, noise complaints from campers running their generators, a pair of drunken vacationers speed boating that had collided with each other, until John couldn't take it any more.

“Greg, I don't know how to bring this up subtly, but I don't want to beat around the bush-”

“Ahh! There is someone, I knew it! Spill!”

“Wellll, that's not exactly what I meant. I'll give you three hints. Eats fish, lives in the sea, arrogant little prick.”

Lestrade looked shocked for a moment, then began to chuckle. “So the great petulant fish has made himself known. He better be careful, or he's going to get caught in a net that won't be easily undone.”

“That's how I found him. Met him, I mean. He was caught in a literal net.”

“Shit, is he okay?”

“Oh yeah, he's back to his arrogant self. I'm just so glad you know about him. I kept thinking over and over maybe I was going a little nuts.”

“Oh, you're as sane as I am. Come on. You look like you could use a drink.”

 

 

“I think I just pissed him off,” John said as they sat down in the kitchen

“Doesn't take much. He's the coldest fish I've ever met. I mean, he's the only one I've ever met, but...”

“I was wondering.”

“I wouldn't worry about it John. I've pissed him off plenty in my time, and he always rocks up again. Whatever you do though, don't apologise by giving him fish. He really hates that.” He took on a haughty expression. “'Do I look like a fucking pet?'”

“That sounds like him.”

“How many times have you spoken with him?”

John pursed his lips, thinking. “Ffffive, six times in the past ten days?”

Lestrade gaped at him. “John, that's...that's really uncommon. I only ever see him once or twice a month, if I'm lucky, and its always quite cursory.”

“What, you're saying I'm special or something?” Inside, John was secretly preening.

“Pshh, I dunno, all I know is, his kind? Very secretive. Keep to themselves. Sherlock's kind of an odd cannon, I'd say. Sounds like he's taken a liking to you. Just you know...be careful is all I'd say. He's very good at manipulation. What do you talk about anyway?”

John shrugged. “I ask him about his people, or try to anyway, and he asks me about how light bulbs work. He's been very...very friendly.”

“You're sure we're talking about the same Sherlock?”

John shrugged. “How'd you meet him?”

Lestrade blew air out of his cheeks.

“It was just after I left Scotland Yard. I was out looking for this kid that had disappeared. I thought for sure he had gotten swept out to sea. I was motoring around the headlands, and the weather turned bad, really bad. I spotted the body along the coast, he was being battered along the rocks. I should have called it in, but I thought I could get him. I couldn't get the boat any closer, so I decided to go in. The water was much worse than it looked, and I must have gotten caught up in it somehow... anyway long story short he showed up out of nowhere and saved my ass, telling me I was an idiot, which was probably true. When we next met he told me he had seen me head a whale beaching the previous week, and told me it was a one for one.”

“And the kid?”

“Nah, I never retrieved the kid,” he said as he took a swig of beer. After that, they moved on to other topics, but John was left thinking.

 

He didn't see Sherlock for four days, and John knew he was punishing him. It was getting on towards evening on Sunday, and John was catching the last of the suns rays out on the dock, lying flat on his stomach. He was, of course, hoping that Sherlock would show up as usual. The radio was still next to him, turned on. He was just dozing, falling asleep when he heard a splash that barely registered, and the next instant he was doused with a jet of cold ocean water. Gasping, John sat up, just in time to see something streak away out to sea, waning sun glancing off scales.

“You fucker!” John shouted after him. Sherlock didn't return.

 

On day five, John had to admit that he missed him. After breakfast, John took his old turntable off its shelf, and carried it down to the pier. He had an affinity for old records. It was overcast, and quite cool, threatening rain later. He shut off the radio, pulled a record out of its slip, set it into place, and dropped the needle on. After a moment, Billie Holiday's _I'll Be Seeing You_ came through, slow and mournful. He sat on the edge of the dock, legs dangling, and stared out to sea. Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock appeared silently, his face emotionless. John licked his lips.

“Sherlock, I'm really sorry, I was joking about the radio, I would never...I wouldn't do that. I'll leave it out here as long as you like.” _Although you nearly destroyed it yesterday_ he almost added. Sherlock continued to stare at him, his face blank.

“Take off your clothes and come in here,” Sherlock said without preamble. It was the last thing John ever expected to hear, and he nearly choked on his own spit. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You heard me.”

“No, thanks, I'm good.”

“I need to do something. It's important. Come in.”

John stared at him, thinking. Sherlock's eyes were boring in to him. John somehow realised then and there that he didn't have a choice, and there was only one thing to do. He understood this to be another trust test, and he had to either fall or fly. Or swim, in his case. He also realised that he trusted Sherlock, or wanted to anyway.

John slowly lifted his shirt off, then his slacks, then his pants, and lowered himself off the end of the dock into the water, gasping. It was not the best day for a dip, and John felt like his lungs were contracting, among other things. He waited there, treading water, watching Sherlock, who was watching him. Sherlock ducked down, disappearing under the surface, and John saw him approach him, and slowly circle.

John gasped.

Sherlock was scanning him. John never forgot the first time a dolphin had done the same to him, bouncing its sonar off his body to gain information only known to them. It was uncanny, you could feel it, almost like they were reading your insides. This is what Sherlock was doing now. John tried to take on a sense of calm, and remain perfectly still, though he couldn't help feeling nervous. Who knew what he could read from him? After a minute, Sherlock surfaced, his face still unreadable.

“Get what you needed?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't need me to take off my clothes for that.”

“No. I just wanted to see if you would.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a spate of good weather, and John was hunting for oysters in the shallows down the coast where it was quite rocky when Sherlock showed up, without any warning as usual.

“Come swimming, John. You can keep your clothes on this time,” he said mischievously.

John quickly downplayed his surprise at this request.

“It's too cold, Sherlock, I'd have to go get my wetsuit.”

“So go get your Wet Suit.”

“Is this swimming going to become a Thing?”

“Do you want it to become a Thing?”

“No, its cold,” John lied. He wasn't about to tell Sherlock that he had been secretly longing to do so, to see in the water how he moved. For purely scientific reasons, of course. “And I'm looking for oysters,” he added for good measure.

“What, these things?”

John looked up. Sherlock held about five of them in his hands. As he watched, Sherlock pried one open single handedly, and sucked its contents into his mouth.

“Hey!”

“Come swimming! Come in, and I shall find you oysters.”

“I don't need help.”

“Don't be grumpy, John, come in!”

 

Fifteen minutes later, John was up to his waist in water and moving out towards the bay when he yelped as he felt a searing pain go through his foot. He examined the bottom of it through the water, and was shocked to see a shard of dark green glass embedded in the front pad. A stream of blood was clouding the water already. John cursed.

Sherlock was at his side in an instant.

“Don't move,” he said, and dove down. He felt cold hands take hold, and watched below, as with out warning Sherlock yanked the glass out of his foot. John yelled again.

“Christ, Sherlock, I don't think you're supposed to just yank it out like that.” John said as he came up again. He thought of all the times he had carefully removed rubbish from various body parts of various animals using forceps and tweezers and scissors, and turned to hop back to shore.

“I'll be back,” Sherlock said, and disappeared.

“Right, great,” John said sarcastically as he sat down on the rocky shore, and pulled his foot into his lap to apply pressure. Sherlock didn't take long, returning trailing a line of seaweed. His cheeks were full of something green as well, which he spat out into his hand. With his other, he began ripping long blades off of the stalk, and John got an idea of where this was going.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“In the water, blood means death,” Sherlock said, as he placed the wad of chewed up up gunk into John's hand. “It must be stopped right away, or something can smell it and come to have an easy meal.”

“I don't live in the water.”

Sherlock ignored him, and took his foot into his hands and applied his own pressure, and John sat back and let him. Without warning, Sherlock lowered his face and sucked gently over the wound. John yanked his foot away.

“ _Sherlock!”_

He looked a bit put out. “Not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah!”

“I just wanted to know what it tasted like.”

“Ever heard of asking for permission?”

“Can I try?”

“No!”

Sherlock pouted as he picked up the mashed up poultice again, and then John heard himself say “Okay” quietly. A look of utmost happiness came across Sherlock's face, and he transferred the mush back into John's hand before he took his foot back into his hands. Then he sealed his mouth around the wound again, and John swallowed hard. From this angle he could just see his bent head, long eyelashes sweeping his cheeks as his eyes closed halfway, and John felt something warm begin to pool inside his body that travelled up through his arms like a thrill. Then Sherlock looked up at him through his lashes, still affixed to his foot, and that didn't help at all. He looked absolutely devastating. It wasn't so much the fact that he was tasting his blood, John didn't think about that, but the feeling of that mouth sucking his skin that turned John on. He felt a tongue press gently to the wound that sent both sparks of pain and something else, and John nearly let out an embarrassing sound. Instead, he made to pull his foot away.

“Okay,” John gasped, and Sherlock thankfully let go.

“Well?” John managed to ask.

Sherlock cocked his head. “It's okay. I think I'll stick to fish.” Then he looked at John out of the corner of his eye and smirked.

“I don't know whether I should be offended or relieved.”

“We are opportunistic scavengers, John,” he said as he plucked the mush out of John's hand and applied it to his foot. “Emphasis on _opportunity_.”

“I thought you were active predators.”

“That too.”

“You know, I have bandages and things up at the house.”

“Are you going to put those bandages into the rubbish when you are done with them?” Sherlock asked.

“Um, yes.”

“And then where will they go?”

“Into the landfill.”

“And then?”

“And then some poor bird will mistake it for food and choke and die. Point taken.” John stood as he finished wrapping his foot in kelp blades. “I think I'm going to go back to the house,” He said, not mentioning that he would like to take care of other more personal things than his foot. “Thanks for the doctoring.”

“Thanks for the sampling.” Sherlock turned and dived, moving out to sea.

“Will you be here tomorrow evening?” John shouted after him.

“I could be.”

“I want to show you something I think you'll like. You have green stuff stuck to your teeth, by the way.”

Sherlock bared his teeth at him, and disappeared without another word. John smiled to himself.

 

 

The weather was supposed to be clear, and unreasonably warm. As the sun went down, John dragged a dusty old tv set down to the dock that he had picked up at a car boot sale ages ago, extension chord in hand.

Then he dragged a deck chair down, and the duvet off his bed in case it got cold.

“Soon you'll be dragging your whole house down here,” Sherlock said by way of greeting.

“Hello to you too. You know, its funny, I keep thinking I should invite you to come in, before I remember that that wouldn't really work out very well,” John said as he angled the set in the corner of the dock, so it was pointing half out to sea, but he could still set his chair on the corner of the dock to view it. He had tried to hash out what film he should play to introduce Sherlock to this alien medium, but his options were pretty limited. John had decided on a classic, _To Have and Have Not._ The set only played VHS, and John thought it wouldn't really matter what film it was, if he could guess what Sherlock's reaction would be. He was not disappointed.

If the radio was something, Sherlock's face looked like the second coming of Christ had dropped down right onto the end of the pier. John watched his face out of the corner of his eye as he turned the set on, and wished he could somehow capture that look of awe permanently. John spent more time throughout the film shooting glances at Sherlock than actually watching it, and he had to admit, something twinged in John's gut, and for an instant he wondered if this was right. He felt a bit like he was taking a bow and arrow out of the hands of a native and replacing it with a gun, when the bow and arrow had served just fine for several thousand years. John pushed this debacle out of his mind, realising he wouldn't have traded the delight he brought Sherlock by this simple act for anything. He decided showing him one little film wouldn't hurt, and who was he to decide what Sherlock was and wasn't exposed to?

When it was over, John got up and reached to shut off the set.

“Nooo!” Sherlock yowled the instant the screen went dark.

“What? Sherlock, its over! Did you like it?” he asked sarcastically.

“Oh, John, John!” He could just make out him swimming in large circles ecstatically. “Can we see it again?”

“What, the whole thing? You can, I'm going to bed, I'm tired and cold.”

“ _John!_ ”

“What?”

“How do you do anything else when you have such a wonderful thing?”

“It's just a film, Sherlock. Surely your kind tell stories to entertain yourselves.”

Sherlock ignored him. “I want to see the film, John.”

“Fine. I'll put it on, but I'm going to bed. See this button here? Please press that when you are done.”

 

John was almost scared that Sherlock would still be watching it when he got up the next morning, but fortunately he wasn't there. He showed up around noon, though. John was inside writing, when he heard the tell-tale whistle. He closed his eyes momentarily and grabbed his jacket. Sherlock was digging a bone out from between his teeth when John got down to the dock.

“I want to see the film.”

“Don't you have better things to do?”

“Such as?”

“Haven't you already seen it like five times?”

“ _John!”_

“I- there are other films, you know,” John said, before possibly regretting it. Sherlock's eyes went wide, as if the possibility didn't even occur to him in the midst of his delight. “You mean, other, different ones?” he breathed. “How many?”

John was regretting this more and more. “Pshh, countless ones. Thousands, hundreds of thousands. They make more every year.”

Sherlock stared at him in shock. Then he let out a high pitched screech.

“Oh god, what have I started.” John muttered, and turned and walked hastily back up the dock. Sherlock followed, swimming beside. “Johnnn, Johnnnn, please let me see one?” He said in a sickeningly charming voice that didn't sound like Sherlock at all. John ignored him.

“Who are you to dictate the rules?” Sherlock suddenly snapped, tone changing in an instant. John didn't back down.

“It's my tv. This isn't healthy, Sherlock. How about we watch one film a day.”

“Great. It's day, I want to watch a film.”

“Come back later, when the sun goes down,” John said over his shoulder. “Unless you'd like to converse instead.”

“No. I don't want to talk to you.” Sherlock said petulantly, and disappeared below the surface.

John, chuckling to himself, went back inside. Later, John went into town for a groceries run, and stopped at the rental shop. The town was so small and isolated, remarkably they still ran a shop that rented VHS. John picked out half a dozen titles.

When he got home and stepped into the house, he nearly had a heart attack.

The first thing he registered was the sound of the television, which for some reason he didn't give much thought as his mind was on other things, despite the fact that is should have set off warning bells. He stepped out of the entryway and dropped his groceries straight on to the floor, where the bags broke and things rolled everywhere.

Sherlock. Was in his house.

He looked too big to fit in the small sitting room, yet he had made himself at home, lying on the floor, propped up against the back of the sofa. “Hello, John,” he said casually.

“No. Oh no. This is _not on_.” He walked over and shut the set off.

“Rude. You always said you wanted to invite me in, so I took the liberty myself.”

“Come on, Sherlock, its not safe. Anyone could-” Suddenly, John broke off and peered at him more closely.

“Sherlock, are you all right?

“What? Yes? I feel fine. I mean, I am fine.” John was pretty sure that if Sherlock could perspire, he'd be breaking out into a cold sweat right about now.

“Real smooth. An idiot could see you're all clammy.” John reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek. He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

“What's clammy?”

“Damp.”

“That's a stupid analogy. Anything in the sea is damp.”

“Well, you're not right now and I don't think you're supposed to look like that. It doesn't refer to clams anyway, but never mind. Come on, we've got to get you out of here. You look like you're about to puke all over my carpet.”

“I can see myself out.”

Sherlock rolled smoothly onto his belly, and then hesitated for a moment, before flopping himself across the floor in a series of body rolls.

John burst into giggles despite himself.

“ _What?”_

“That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. I don't know how in hell you managed to get all the way up here.”

“I'm regretting it. This was a stupid joke,” Sherlock groaned. “I did it just to get a reaction, but I've never been so-” He stopped there and shut his mouth, eyes going wide.

The worst possible noise they could have heard sounded from the driveway. It was the sound of a car pulling up outside, and breaking. John and Sherlock both froze, staring at each other for an infinite moment, before Sherlock started writhing for the back door frame with renewed frenzy.

“No-there's no time! Into the bathroom!” John stepped over him and yanked the door open. Sherlock thankfully seemed to decide he was right, and swung left, pulling himself into the tiny room. John's bathroom was about the size of a broom cupboard, minus the clawfooted tub, and Sherlock lifted his tail up vertically so John could get the door shut. John slammed the door and there was a yelp from within. Sherlock's caudal fin was stuck in the frame, just the last several centimetres. John opened the door, pushed it through, and closed it more carefully, hissing “Sorry!” just as there was a knock on the door frame. The door was still wide open from when John had come in. John walked across and stepped into the entryway to greet whomever the hell it was.

“The Sheriff told me I might find you here. M'names Hank,” a large man with a beard said, extending his hand to shake. John took it, wanting to wrench it off. “I have a critter in the back, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking a look.”

At that instant, what sounded like all the bottles of shampoo and soap on the shelf above the tub being swept off by a large and clumsy tail could be heard, and both John and the man froze.

“Must have forgot to shut the window,” John said. He clapped his hands together cheerfully. “Lets see what you got!”

Hank led him out to the truck, and pulled a card board box out of the back. John looked inside, where a very pissed off looking juvenile pelican glared back at him, its left wing clearly broken.

“Hello,” John said into the box. “What did you do to yourself?”

“My girlfriend found him by the side of the road. Hey, would you mind if I used your bathroom?”  
“No!” John said sharply, then mentally bit off his tongue. “I mean no, sorry, I think something's wrong with the plumbing. I've been meaning to get it fixed.”

“Well whaddaya know! I happen to be a plumber!” _Of course you are._ “Would you like me to take a look? It wouldn't be a problem.”

“That's alright, don't trouble yourself. It's kind of a mess in there. I'm storing a lot of, uh, stuff in there at the moment.” Hank shrugged noncommittally. “Well, thanks for bringing this guy by, we both really appreciate it, even if he doesn't realise it yet. He should be just fine.” John succeeded in shuffling the guy off as quickly as possible, before lugging the box inside and shutting the front door. John pulled open the bathroom door to find Sherlock lying there visibly trembling, surrounded by shampoo bottles.

“He's gone,” John whispered.

“Why are you whispering then?”

“I don't know,” John said normally. “Are you alright?”

“I'm not moving until its dark outside.”

“Okay, okay, that's fine. Do you want to get into the tub? I could run some water.”

Sherlock eyed it. “That doesn't look very comfortable. Maybe just a wet cloth?”

John nodded, and got to his feet. He got two bath towels out of the cupboard and soaked them under the tap.

“Cold water, right?”

“Mm.”

John took one and laid one over Sherlock's torso, then the next one lower down. He sat down and gently pulled Sherlock's fin onto his lap to examine it. “I'm really sorry, I didn't meant to slam it in the door. How much does it hurt?”

“It's fine, we don't have much sensation there.” From the sitting room came a scuffling sound. “What's that?”

“Our new friend.” John let go of his tail and stood up to go bring the box. He picked up his kit that Molly had thankfully left on the kitchen table, and brought both into the bathroom. He sat back down on the floor and pulled on his leather gloves. Carefully he removed the pelican from the box, which remained still until he was free of it, and then began to flap alarmedly. “None of that,” John crooned at the bird. “Sherlock, can you do me a favour and hold him like that for a moment?” John transferred his grip to Sherlock, who held him gently. John opened his back and dug out some anaesthetic, which he administered as Sherlock watched. “What is that?”

“It lets him sleep so I can fix the bone. It's the same stuff I shot you with the first day we met.” John glanced up, and they made eye contact. John looked back down. “It's a simple fracture, it hasn't broken the skin, so he should be fine.” Sherlock watched as John then carefully set the bone, and then administered pain meds and antibiotics. He did so leaning against the bathtub, the bird in his lap. The bathroom was so small that Johns legs had to go over Sherlock's tail, and he could feel Sherlock's breath he was so close. Halfway through John realised Sherlock had stopped trembling. When he was done, he put the bird back into the box, and put the box in the bathtub, as there was barely room on the floor. He was glad to see Hank or someone had taken care to lay a nest of rags in the bottom. He stood, stretching his back. “Right, next patient. How are you feeling?” he leaned down and pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock swatted his hand away.

“I'm fine, I feel like an idiot,” Sherlock bit out.

“I'm not going to say anything about your life choices.”

“You better not!”

John sat back down again.

“Seriously, Sherlock, are you...is this your first time being out of the water for an extended period?”

“Maybe.”

“And you're sure your kind can survive alright?”

“I guess we'll wait and see.”

“Sherlock, I'm serious! If you put a salt water fish into freshwater, its cells can explode and it will die if it can't acclimate.”

“I'm not a fish, John.”

John rolled his eyes frustratingly. “It's just an analogy. You obviously had a physiological response, I was just-”

“Just what?”

“Concerned,” John said carefully.

“How compassionate.” Sherlock said dryly.

“You're the one who decided to so brilliantly flop your way up here!”

“As if I needed reminding. Mind you I'll never be doing this ever again.”

“Do you want something to eat? I have some fresh fish in the fridge.”

“I'm not hungry, but thank you.”

“Do you mind if I...?”

“By all means,” he said, gesticulating exaggeratingly.

“You know, you can come out here if you want,” John said from the kitchen as he fried his fish.

“That's all right, I like it in here. What is this thing, anyway?”

“What thing?”

“This thing.”

John stuck his head into the bathroom. Sherlock was peering into the toilet. John laughed. “That's where we relieve ourselves.”

“What?”

“You know, defecate. Pee.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Where does it go?”

“Down a pipe, to a treatment facility. It gets recycled basically.”

“You people have come up with a solution to everything, yet you still trash the oceans. Why?”

“I'm not proud of it. It's called a Tragedy of the Commons.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, no one owns the ocean, so because no one takes responsibility for it, each person uses it for their own purpose without regards to the negative effect they are having on the system. People are very selfish, Sherlock.”

“In our world, everything is commons. No one possesses anything, and so we respect and care for all things, because it belongs to no one. You would call this an Ambassador, yes?”

“I think that is very wise.” John stepped into the bathroom and over Sherlock's tail to sit down on the floor again with his plate of food.

“You heat it, don't you?” Sherlock said, peering at John's plate and forgetting their previous conversation. “I have seen them do this on the beach, and at the Flathead Cafe.”

“Some people like it raw, most cooked. Try some?”

Sherlock picked a piece up with his hands, and placed it carefully in his mouth. Then he looked at John in horror, and spit it out into his hand, and dropped it into the toilet. John laughed. He continued to eat in silence. “Tell me a story? Of your kind?”

“What kind of story?”

“You must have origin stories, about how things came to be the way they were. You said your kind pass news and things from mouth to mouth.”

“That reminds me. I wanted to ask you something. Among your kind, two people will press their faces together. I have seen it before, and it was in the film, too. Is this behaviour affection?”

“...press their faces...you mean kissing? When they touch lips?”

Sherlock nodded once.

“Yes, that's affection,” John said, something suddenly occurring to him. He licked his lips nervously. “Sherlock, your kind, how do they, I mean, do you bear live young?” he ended up stuttering. Sherlock was smirking at him, clearly getting at what John was asking, but thankfully he answered openly.

“Yes, we bear live young. We are mammals, John.” Sherlock tapped a small round pucker on his torso, just above where his scales began in earnest. John realised it was his navel, and wondered at how he had never noticed it before. John reached out, hesitating. “Can I?” Sherlock nodded, and John circled it lightly with a finger, inspecting. He felt Sherlock's abdominal muscles flex involuntarily in response. John swallowed.

“But we do not do this kissing,” Sherlock continued. His voice seemed an octave lower. “Sex is, however, a large part of out culture. We mate openly, for pleasure and for procreation. Your kind do it secretly, yes? I have rarely seen humans mate.”

“You sound curious,” John said teasingly.

“I am curious.” Sherlock said without shame. He adjusted his towel, and changed the subject.

“You wanted to hear a story? I will tell you a story of our people that was told to me when I was quite small, although I find it ridiculous and illogical. The story goes that there was a being who created everything, and he was in the shape of a giant turtle.”

“Why a turtle?”

“I don't know. Ask my mother.”

“What is your mother like?”

“No interrupting. The turtle was larger than the world, larger than everything, and he did not live in the sea. He lived in the air, and one day he fell off the edge, and he spun so quickly that the sun was made on his way down. I told you this story was stupid...”

 

 

John didn't remember falling asleep, but when he awoke, it was to Sherlock's voice. He opened his eyes and found it was quite dark. They were still in the bathroom, and John's neck ached.

“John.”

“Mm?”

“I'm feeling a bit...mmm...light headed,” Sherlock said from up above him somewhere.

“Christ, what time is it?” John sat up. “Alright, lets go, why didn't you wake me sooner? Never mind, it doesn't matter. Can you move?”

Sherlock didn't respond, but started to shuffle himself awkwardly out of the bathroom. He managed to get himself over the door frame and collapsed into the yard, when a thought struck John.

“Oh! I know! I have a brilliant idea. Sherlock, get on to your stomach. Now, get into a push up position.”

“What's that.”

John showed him, and Sherlock complied. Then John stood behind him and lifted his tail up like you might run a wheelbarrow race. “Now, walk, Sherlock!” Sherlock managed to work his way across the yard, until he collapsed onto his arms, almost to the slope that led down to the beach. It would have been funny, except that John was genuinely worried that Sherlock was on the verge of passing out.

“I need...just give me...” He pressed his forehead into the ground and closed his eyes. John noticed he was trembling all over again.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Sherlock mumbled.

John leaned over and pressed two fingers into his jugular. His heart rate was going like a rabbit's. John didn't know what his normal pulse rate was, but he had his suspicions based on the response he was exhibiting. His breathing was quite shallow as well.

“Are you still feeling dizzy? Tingly?”

Sherlock responded by grinding his head further into the ground. “Sherlock, I think you're just having a panic attack, you'll be fine, the water is very close.”

At the sound of _water_ , Sherlock let out an unconscious whimper.

“I want you to breathe for another minute, then we'll get up and go again, okay?” John reached over and stroked the hair out of his eyes. It was completely dry now, the first time John had ever seen it like that, and it was all curly and soft. John waited for a minute, then nudged him gently.

“Wait, John,” Sherlock said, and swallowed. John waited.

“John...when I go back...I think...I think I need to take some time away. I hope you understand.” John felt a twinge of surprise and remorse go through him.

“You'll be alright?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed.

“When will you return?”

“I do not know. A week, perhaps, maybe more.”

“My vacation ends in four days.”

Sherlock turned to look at him, opening his eyes, but didn't say anything at first. “Perhaps its for the best, then.”

John felt more than a little hurt at those words. He licked his lips.

“Sherlock, I hope you know, that is, I wanted to convey to you how much I have enjoyed your company here. I would very much like to stay your friend.”

Sherlock was looking at him strangely, but his next words were a comfort.

“I would like that very much, John.”

 

The coast was so dark, John could barely see where the beach ended and the ocean began. They managed to wheelbarrow their way awkwardly down the hill, until Sherlock collapsed onto the beach, heaving. From the beach to the house had never seemed so far. Sherlock lay there a moment longer, then wriggled his body into the sea. For a moment, he hung there suspended in the shallow surf. Then, with a kick of his tail he disappeared into the darkness of the ocean, never looking back, a strange mirror to the first time John had seen him go.

 

The next four days passed emptily, uneventfully. John found the pelican a poor substitute for Sherlock's company. When he left and drove back home, he felt as though he were waking from a dream.


	5. Chapter 5

“Heyyyy!” Brenda, one of the vets greeted him in the car park as he got out of the car. John grinned. “I brought you a present,” John handed her the pelican box. “Who's this?” Brenda peered in to the box.  
“Apparently even on vacation I'm in demand.”  
“Right you are. Get in here and say hello to everyone. Did you have a good time? You look different,” Brenda peered at him closely. John laughed fakely. “Hopefully just twenty five days older. Hey, Molly,” he greeted as she appeared.  
“How'd it go? You didn't ever find the seal?”  
“Seal?” John had to rack his brains to realise what she meant. “Oh, no, I never saw him again.”  
He realised Molly was still talking to him. “What?” he said distractedly. Molly pursed her lips at him. “Still in vacation land, John?”

 

Three weeks passed. Life went back to normal, or as normal as possible. John missed him. He missed the quietness of the pier, of their conversations. He missed Sherlock pestering him about the way the world worked.  
John awoke suddenly one night, unaware what had brought him awake so abruptly. He sat there upright for a moment longer, before he tore off his bed clothes, slipped on a robe, and went downstairs. He took a torch from the lockers in the hallway, and opened the back door. He walked across the compound and down the flights of metal stairs to the beach. There were the permanent open ocean pens, and two smaller rehabilitation pens. In the furthest rehab pen was Sherlock, floating like a ghost. The safety lights reflected strangely orange off his skin. The pens were simply netted off to the open ocean, and John imagined it hadn't been difficult for him to work his way in there. It wouldn't have been harder than the equivalent of hoping a fence. They stood and stared at each other, perhaps not wanting to break the spell. Then Sherlock raised a hand and beckoned, his intention clear. All of the other smaller pools had catwalks stretched over them. The last had none. The only way to get in there was to swim. Although it was still late summer, the ocean was never warm, and at this time of night, far from it. John left and went to the sheds. Shakingly, he pulled on his wetsuit, and then returned and waded in. He slowly swam out to where Sherlock was waiting for him.

“Hello, John.”  
“Hello.” John swallowed. “You alright?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“No lasting side effects from your venture?”  
At that, a small smile worked its way onto Sherlock's face. He shook his head, then looked down. “John, I never thanked you for what you did in the house.” John started to open his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off, his face taking on that rare vulnerable look. “No, listen. I...live in a very hostile environment, and I have been in some...difficult situations. But I do not think I have ever been as terrified as I was that day. You have saved my life twice now-” John opened his mouth and Sherlock clamped a hand over it. “-And I just wanted to express my gratitude.”  
John stuck his tongue out, and licked the hand covering his mouth. Sherlock yanked it away.  
“Mature.”  
“Is that why you have me out here in the middle of the goddamn freezing ocean in the dead of night?”  
“It is a beautiful night, John, and if I remember correctly I dragged no one in here personally.” John could say nothing to that.  
“When do you not work?”  
“Um, technically I have Sunday off, but I'm always working. I live here, so...”  
“Can you get away on Sunday?”  
 _I'm making a date with a merman._  
“I...yes.”  
“When is Sunday?”  
“Four days from now.”  
“Come to the house?”  
“Sherlock, that's a 3 hour drive each way!”  
“You said you had Sunday off.”  
“Sherlock, I don't think this is going to work.”  
“If you meet me here, I can take you there in a third of the time.”  
“What, swim with you? Isn't there somewhere else we can meet that's closer?”  
Even in the gloom, John could see his nostrils flare in irritation. A large wave took this opportunity to roll towards them, and John took on a large mouthful of seawater, coughing and spitting. He felt Sherlock reach out to steady him with both hands. “There is a place not far from here. You know it as Brookers Bay?”  
John nodded.  
“Meet me there?”

 

“John, are you all right? Ever since you've gotten back you've been acting so strangely.” John looked up to find Molly staring at him. He realised once again that she had been talking and he hadn't been paying attention. John licked his lips. “I'm fine, Molly. Listen, I was thinking I might get away on Sunday, take a day trip.”  
“It's your day off, John. I think that would do you good. But you know, that means actually getting in your car and going somewhere else.”  
“Right.”  
“Just making sure.”  
Sunday couldn't come fast enough.

 

John arrived at the beach, and decided to swim while he waited for Sherlock to show up. He pulled on his wetsuit, and stroked out into the ocean. Once he was out far, he turned onto his back, and floated. His suit gave him great buoyancy.  
As usual, he showed up without warning, this time right next to him some twenty minutes later. John nearly jumped out of his skin.  
“Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”  
“What's that?”  
“When your heart stops beating.”  
“What's a heart?”  
“It's the thing inside you that gives you life, pumps your blood around.”  
“Well,” he reached up and plucked something out of John's hair, and lowered it into the water. “I wouldn't want that.” A piece of kelp; John watched it float away an inch over Sherlock's flat palm under the water. The webbing between his fingers was pale, milky. John reached for his hand without thinking, turning it over to examine it in detail. He ran the pads of his fingers over the webbing, and he felt rather than saw a tremor run through Sherlock. He took John's arm and pulled him gently inland, and together they swam towards the shore.  
“You are quite slow, John.”  
“A keen observation, Sherlock. However, may I point out that while I can manage quite well in your element, that you are reduced to a very attractive walrus on land.” John knew this was taking a chance bringing this up as it had emotional baggage attached to it, but Sherlock took it well, both corners of his mouth going down in a pout. In an instant though, this was gone, replaced by a smug expression. “You find me attractive?”  
John was caught completely off guard, and felt his face flush despite the cold water. “I- uh. Uhh.” Sherlock's eyes were twinkling. John pulled him to a halt and forgot his train of thought or lack thereof when he saw where they were going. They were headed for a saltwater lagoon, protected by an embankment. It was quite green, and murky looking, but well coveted from the coast.  
“Eugh! I'm not going in there!”  
“It's just kelp, John. It's quite clean, I assure you.”  
Reluctantly, John followed him in.  
“We have got to find a better arrangement,” John muttered. “I am perfectly fine swimming in the ocean at night, but I cannot handle slimy-” Something slid across his ankle, and he nearly jumped out of his skin again. “What was that?!” Sherlock rolled his eyes and ducked down under the water. He re- emerged and flung a long piece of seaweed at John, who snatched at it and missed, and it slapped him in the face. Sherlock broke into giggles.  
“All right, that's it. Please- do you mind if I get out?”  
“You're charming when you're jumpy,” Sherlock said.  
“I'd rather be cold than have shit grabbing at my ankles.” said John as he swam to the edge of the lagoon and pulled himself up onto the silty bank. He grabbed a handful of muck and flung it at Sherlock in the shallows. This too made contact, and Sherlock spit silt that had landed in his open mouth. Sherlock grabbed a handful and lobbed it lightning fast at John.  
“No-”  
It hit him in the neck with a loud _thwack_. Sherlock turned and dived out into the lagoon.  
“That's not fair!”  
“Come out here then.”  
“No you come over here, I want to try something.”  
“Do I look like an idiot.”  
“No, I'm serious, truce, okay?”  
“What does that mean?”  
“It means I promise not to throw mud or anything else. Just come over here.”  
Sherlock swam back over until he was floating in the shallows. John reached over, and jabbed a finger under his ribs in the prime tickle zone.  
“No, John-!” His words dissolved into that strange sound that was without a doubt laughter. John collapsed on top of him, and Sherlock got a hold of his forearms from underneath, pushing them back, and John flailed hopelessly, trying to evade. At last they stilled, Sherlock on his back, hair fanning out behind him, John leaning over, half in the water, half out.

“Can I try something else?” John whispered. Sherlock did not respond, he was unmoving now. John moved forward slightly, carefully, calculatingly, until he was nose to nose, looking straight into those wide green- grey eyes. He could see every drop of water clinging to his long eyelashes. Gently, he pressed his lips to Sherlock's, applying steadying pressure, until he felt Sherlock open his mouth in surprise. John took this opportunity to test the waters. He swept his tongue out tentatively, and felt Sherlock gasp in surprise. John deepened the kiss slowly, feeling Sherlock begin to respond, before pulling back. He felt a thrill run along his nerves. It was not unlike kissing anyone else, yet different at the same time. This was Sherlock, after all, and it wasn't until that moment that the way John felt towards him hit him like a ton of bricks, and he realised he was in the deep end in regards to his emotions. When he did pull back, he found Sherlock was shaking a little.

“Okay?” John asked.  
“That was quite...I liked that very much,” Sherlock said quietly. His voice sounded like it was down somewhere around his navel.  
John leaned down again, this time wrapping his arm around his back and into his hair, cradling his neck. He parted his lips slowly, then with a gradual intensity that made sparks of heat fire along his nerves. He tilted his head, shifting, taking his lower lip into his mouth, sucking gently. This time he felt Sherlock meet him with his tongue, and John responded, heart racing. Their lips moved together, and John breathed in sharply in delight as he felt Sherlock's arms come up to grip him, then shifted to wrap around him more securely. He pulled away after awhile to impart one last burning kiss. He wished he could have remembered that expression on Sherlock's face forever. He looked enlightened, to say the least. Perhaps a better word was ravished.  
“John...John..” Sherlock was saying breathlessly.  
“Hmm?” John was busy making work of Sherlock's neck, nipping the skin tenderly, moving down slowly.  
I find myself, quite, ah...”  
John pulled away, and looked down to follow Sherlock's gaze, and saw what he at first glance was a fish in front of Sherlock's waist, before he suddenly realised what it was. “Oh! oh.” _They must have genital slits like dolphins._ “That's okay, I find myself in a similar position.”  
Sherlock laughed suddenly. “You look like you are burning from curiosity.”  
“I'm sorry,” John said quickly, realising he was staring.  
“Don't be.” Sherlock sat up, visibly swallowing. “John, I wanted to speak to you out here to tell you honestly that the reason I left three weeks ago was because I was developing very strong feelings for you, and I felt I needed time to sort through them.”  
“Oh,” John said stupidly.  
“In truth, I feel as though I have known you a great while, instead of less than one season, and being around you, the time we spent together...I do not know if I have felt happiness like that all my life. But you must understand, that I am a bit terrified by all this, not to mention the, mm, unorthodox nature of it. In any case, I wanted to be honest with you about how I felt. I want you to know that I care very much for you, and consider our time together of the utmost importance. I- John, are you alright? Why, this?” Sherlock brushed a finger under his eye. “You are sad?”

John felt like a bubble had burst inside of him. “No, no, of course not, Sherlock. Some people cry when they are very very happy.” John took his hand in his own. “I care very much for you too. And I'm terrified too, scared to death. I don't know how this is going to work. If someone discovers you-”  
“Don't lets think about that now,: Sherlock said quickly. “We'll figure it out somehow.”  
John smiled suddenly. “That was a very eloquent speech for one in such an estranged condition.”  
“Yes...well...” Sherlock lay back down again. He stared up at him for a moment, then closed his eyes. John leaned in, but instead of kissing him, John ran the tip of his nose feather light down Sherlock's cheek, barely touching. John drew back and gently traced the outline of those lips with the tip of a finger. With Sherlock's eyes closed, John stole a glance downward. Sherlock's penis had since retracted while he had spoke, but John could see clearly the slit he had not noticed before was quite open, almost oval in shape. John nosed underneath Sherlock's chin from his ear across to his throat, lips barely brushing, until suddenly without warning he latched them over the front of Sherlock's throat and sucked gently. Sherlock gave a shout in surprise, and John, satisfied, worked his fingers feather light down Sherlock's chest until he reached his slit, which he continued to circle maddeningly lightly, barely brushing the skin.  
“Are you holding back on me?” John growled.  
“N-no.”  
“I think you are.”  
“Johnnnn...”  
John complied and rubbed his slit gently. He felt rather than saw Sherlock's penis make its reappearance.  
“Incredible,” John whispered.  
“If you go all vet doctor on me, I will murder you.” Sherlock suddenly sat partially up. “This isn't some sort of vet fetish is it?”  
“Will you shut up? How do you even know about that?”  
“John, I live next to a lot of empty beaches. I've heard it all.”  
“I thought you said you never saw humans having sex.”  
“I never get close enough to see anything in detail. I can hear everything, however.”  
“Oh? Such as?”  
“Well, I was going to bring this up some other time, but I think you should keep an eye on those dolphins of yours-”  
John attacked him with his mouth, and Sherlock gradually stopped laughing as the kisses deepened. Sherlock prodded at him without breaking contact, and fumbled with the zip on John's wetsuit. John broke away to pull his arms out of it, which took a considerable amount of flailing. “See now I'm cold and slimy,” John said.  
“We all have to make sacrifices.”

Given free reign at last, John ran his hands over Sherlock's body, around his shoulders, over his chest, taking his time, getting to know the touch and feel of his body. He brushed them lightly over the gill slits, which made Sherlock shudder. The skin was quite thin here, and John, gauging his reaction, repeated the gesture. Sherlock's chest heaved as he breathed deeply, and he hummed and buried his face into John's neck, mumbling something in his own tongue that John did not understand. Sherlock canted his hips forward, and John took the hint, reaching down to take him in hand. He pushed him through his fist, and Sherlock arched his back. John felt one of Sherlock's hands land on his, and pry his grip open. John stopped and let Sherlock guide him to the base of the underside.

“Down...” Sherlock hummed, his voice positively gravelly, and John following his lead began to rub along his length just with one finger, coming back to circle at the base, paying particular attention there. It seemed unlike in humans, that he had more sensation at the base, and John used his other hand to brush the damp hair away from Sherlock's face tenderly. Sherlock in turn wrapped his arms around John's back. He turned his head to the side, eyes closed, losing himself in a torrent of sensation. He began to rock his hips in earnest, rubbing himself along John's fingers. John could feel him shaking from the strain, but he felt detached, mostly because his upper chest was exposed and he was so cold now from removing his wetsuit from the waist up. He was more than happy to make Sherlock come apart at the seams if it meant being a little uncomfortable.  
Sherlock gripped him hard as he began to come, making the most beautiful repetitive whimper as John worked him through it, before he collapsed back, gasping. John bent down to kiss him again, and Sherlock tilted his head up to allow him access underneath his chin, eyes still closed. Sherlock let go and let his arms flop limply down, one angled up above his head. John realised he had no hair in his armpits, just like anywhere else on his body except for his head, as he suspected this would impede his streamlined form from moving through the water. John mouthed at the soft skin there, and then moved south, over his torso, down, down his body to kiss over his sex. His penis had already retracted, and Sherlock pawed at him weakly. John came back up, and looked over his face, still tilted to the side, eyes closed. Sherlock didn't move.

“Are you asleep?” John whispered.  
“No!” Sherlock said, muffled, affronted, eyes still closed. John suddenly realised he had never seen him sleep, and a sudden longing to lie with him through the night rose in John. How on earth would that work? Sherlock opened his eyes, and reached for John, sliding his hand underneath the wetsuit at his waist. John realised what his intentions were, and he gently removed Sherlock's hand, wrapping it in his own. Sherlock pouted at him.  
“It's okay, to be honest, it wouldn't do much good. I am freezing.”  
“I want to, you completely took over, John!”  
“I appreciate it, but it shall have to wait until next time, love. I'm turning into an ice cube here.” John bent down, and gently kissed him, which seemed to mollify him slightly.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Mm.”  
“How do you feel about warm water?”  
Sherlock sat up. “I don't know, I've never been in warm water.”  
“You've never been to the Mediterranean?”  
“Where's that?”  
“It's, um, you cross the channel and go south along the land until there is a narrow break. Past that, the water is very warm.”  
“I know where you are speaking of. I'd never go through there, its too narrow and there are too many ships. Where else is there warm water?”  
“I don't know. In artificial pools. I could build one, that has access to the sea.”  
Sherlock scrunched up his face in distaste. “You want to build a warm pool for sex?”  
John nearly choked. “It's just an idea. We need to think of something, because I'm not very comfortable.” John stood up, and slid the top half of his wetsuit back on.  
“I agree. I do not like this thing.” Sherlock poked the rubber at his ankle, considering.  
“John, you know that day you cut your foot open?”  
“Mm?”  
“You weren't fooling anybody.”  
John down at him in surprise. “You mean you-”  
Sherlock gave him a pointed look.  
“Oh, god,” John ducked his head in embarrassment.  
“Your physiological responses are just the same to our own, its fascinating. Besides, its very hard to hide anything in these,” Sherlock poked the suit again. “You weren't exactly subtle. I do not understand why you humans become embarrassed by these things. I would have been happy if you had told me. I find your humility quite endearing.”  
“Well that's good.” John sat back down again. Laying down next to him, he wrapped himself around Sherlock, a shiver going through him. John was certain Sherlock's body temperature was lower than a humans, and it didn't help much to try and gain any heat from him, although putting the wetsuit back on certainly helped.  
“God what I wouldn't give for a hot tub right about now.”  
“Are you really so miserable?”  
John looked at him in shock. “That is the last thing I am. I wouldn't rather be anywhere else right now, with you. But I am a bit cold,” he said gently.  
Sherlock sat up. He had an undecipherable expression on his face.  
“I'm going to walk back to the beach and get my towel. Join me?”  
Sherlock shook his head. “It's too exposed. I'm not going there.”  
“Oh. Okay.”  
“John, how is this going to work?”  
John sat up too. “I'll buy a private island in the tropics. We can live there and no one will find us.”  
“I'm serious.”  
“So am I.”  
Sherlock slid backwards into the lagoon.  
“Sherlock, wait, don't go.”  
“I'm not going anywhere, John. This is where I live. Out there,” he pointed out to the ocean. His voice was honest, and just a bit too flat sounding.  
“Sherlock-”  
“Go get warm, John...”  
He was greeted with the sight of fins in the air as Sherlock dived. It felt like a slap in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last bit i'll be posting for awhile, as I have exams. My tumblr is evilhouseplant.


End file.
